One Last Perfect Moment
by ncfan
Summary: Sakumo gives up. /The sun is shining, brittle and cold. The day is autumn, aspiring to winter, and Kakashi's laughter fills the shining air./


Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.

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Kakashi doesn't know. Sakumo's heart thumps as he thinks about that, fingering the tanto in his hands. It's not the tanto he most often uses in battle, not the family tanto, but a run of the mill tanto, the gleam of the metal dull and tarnished, almost starting to spot dull crimson with rust (or maybe it's just blood), and the metal is cool and smooth and achingly familiar in his callused hands.

It is morning, not quite autumn, not quite winter. Frost laid thick on the tawny leaves just an hour before, and now the leaves are still soggy with the formerly frozen water. Cold sunlight leaks in through the kitchen windows, on to the low table casting little snowflakes of light sparkling all around, dazzling Sakumo's darkened eyes.

The call of the blade draws Sakumo's attention, leading his hand further up the hilt to grip it with all the strength his limbs still possess.

"Daddy?" the small voice intrudes upon his thoughts, bringing Sakumo back to his senses. His son is calling to him.

Kakashi sits across the table, sitting cross-legged on the mat. A plate of onigiri sits in front of him. Kakashi's wide black eyes stare up at him, a little uncertain. Sakumo doesn't answer at first, and Kakashi leans forward and shakes Sakumo's arm. "Daddy?" Fear flavors his son's words; long has his father behaved strangely, ever since the failed mission over a year ago, and he still can't wrap his mind around his father's strange behavior.

Kakashi is an intelligent boy. He can tell that something in his father's behavior lately has been different, different from the cheerfulness before the mission that went wrong, and different from the melancholy that came afterwards. And Sakumo knows when he sees the uncertainty in the black depths of his son's eyes that he has to put a mask on, that he has to reassure him.

"What is it, Kakashi?" Sakumo doesn't have to fake a smile as he sees a slow, relieved one come over his boy's face. The air grows slightly warmer in the room; some of the tension lessens in pain and intensity.

"I was wondering…well," Kakashi dips his head bashfully, "Will you come with me to the park today?" he asks shyly. Kakashi, Sakumo reflects, is possibly the only chunin in the history of Konohagakure who was so young when he was promoted that going to the park is something he still wants to do. Even if Kakashi doesn't ask much anymore, it just underscores how young he is.

Sakumo is caught. The smile is so trusting, so simple and so full of a single-minded hope…

He can put it off a little while longer. "I'll have come back home before too long…" Kakashi's face falls "…but of course I'll come with you Kakashi."

The little boy's face lights up. "Great!"

_Later…_

As Sakumo guides a katana—he's changed his mind; a katana is so much better for this than a tanto; it will leave a clean cut, finish the job so much more quickly—to his abdomen, he thinks.

The shoji are pulled shut; he belatedly wishes that he and Kakashi did not share a bedroom. The lights in the house are turned off; the dishes are put away, the clothes left to dry on the clothesline in the backyard have been brought in and neatly folded in the back room.

Sakumo knows he is weak; he has to be, to leave his so-young son all alone. _He's only six years old! _some part of him cries in anguish, the part unsure of what he's doing. _Why are you doing this to him?_

Kakashi is too young to notice the stares, the nasty comments, the looks of disappointment and ridicule that come his father's way. But he is not unintelligent; he is brilliant, in fact. It would not have been long before he had.

Kakashi does not deserve to grow up with that shadow over him. He deserves better than to be stained with the shame of a disgraced father.

Sakumo just wishes that he could find a better solution than this.

The little note sits on the table in the corner near the window, Sakumo's concise font breaking in little places, the paper crumpled at the edges.

_Kakashi… My little one, I am sorry. You don't deserve growing up with a father who can't stand upright among his peers… But you don't deserve this, either._

_This is __**not**__ your fault; it never has been, and it never will be. Don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise._

_Whatever you think of me, whatever you are told and whatever opinions you hold of me later, just know that I love you. I love you, son, and I always will._

Sakumo takes the katana in earnest, willing himself to press down. _Move…Move…Move!_ As his hands rise, shaking, Sakumo dredges up the perfect memory, the one thing that he knows will tide him over to the other side…

_The sun is shining, brittle and cold. The day is autumn, aspiring towards winter. The chains on the swing set squeak with a high, shrill insistence, piercing and loud._

_They met Namikaze Minato, a fifteen-year-old chunin—Sakumo isn't sure how Kakashi and Jiraiya's boy know each other—on the way there, and Kakashi practically dragooned Minato into joining them. Not that it was very hard; Minato seems very fond of Kakashi. Minato is one of the few who behaves as though Sakumo's reputation is not in tatters, treating him with as much respect and friendliness as he would any comrade._

_Sakumo took a turn pushing his son on the swings before—his hands still sting pleasurably—but Minato has taken over for him, letting Sakumo watch._

_A precious moment, one Sakumo will cherish up as much as he can, for few more will come._

_As he smiles, happy to just revel in the moment, Kakashi catches his eye and laughs, his eyes sparkling with the simple happiness of a child, and the sound is like a little angel laughing, so sweet and clear and innocent.  
_

And all fades into blessed darkness, the shining laughter of Sakumo's little son still echoing in the still bedroom air.

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Inspired by Babylon 5, by the story of Susan and her mother.


End file.
